


Inflammable

by horrorgremlin (catstuff)



Series: Once Bitten [7]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Explicit Sex, F/M, Powerplay a little bit, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:14:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23689003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catstuff/pseuds/horrorgremlin
Summary: Whichever way she turns, however hard she tries, everything around her is doused in gasoline, and somehow, she’s the idiot caught playing with a zippo.
Series: Once Bitten [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1702981





	Inflammable

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: explicit sex, self-sabotage.

Grayson knows the calculated risk he’s taking the first time he brings Mariah home to his place. He can ignore his cell phone, he can avoid her part of town, but once she’s been in his apartment, he can’t just hole up and ignore her — he would have to run in order to hide. Inviting Mariah to his sparse little shithole-in-the-wall is a gesture of trust.

She knows what it means, what’s at stake; he can see that ever-churning canniness behind her smile as she makes fun of him for paying rent like a real live meat bag with a real job. She stops at the threshold, feigning the need for an explicit verbal invite. Grayson rolls his eyes and pulls her bodily through the door.

Like a cat, Mariah needs to saunter around and fully inspect her new environment before settling in. It does not take her long. Grayson’s studio apartment consists of a sleeping bag thrown atop two salvaged couch cushions, the rest of the couch, gutted and unfit for sitting, an unloved kitchenette, and a handful of cardboard boxes, some upended and repurposed into what might graciously be called a nightstand and coffee table. Mariah peeks through the ugly, thick blinds on the window and finds a close view of a brick wall. The bathroom, at least, shows signs of habitation, thank god, with a bar of soap and a cheap razor balanced on the edge of the teacup sink and a towel hanging from a hook on the door.

She clucks her tongue as she finishes circling around and returns to Grayson, who waits with crossed arms and a blank expression.

“You’ve been living here how long, hon?”

“Year or two,” he grumbles. He doesn’t comment on the pet name.

Mariah laughs, a single short sound. “And you’ve been scrounging for rent money this whole time? Why don’t you just get yourself a free place like literally every other vampire?”

Grayson’s eyes narrow. “Do you not remember why I feel the way I feel about hypnosis?”

Mariah’s eyes dart away; a brief pause and change of direction is all the acknowledgment she can muster.

“You could at least get some actual furniture and things.”

It’s enough for now.

“What, like your place?” Grayson smiles, teasing. “You could get rid of half your stuff and it would still look like a hoarder’s nest.”

“Maybe I should bring it over here.” She stalks up to him, looking more herself with that possessive glint in her eyes.

“I think this is enough of you in here for now.”

He knows she’s grateful because she lets him close the distance between them, pulling her in by her waist, and she even kicks off her heels without any comment about making it easier for him to reach. He kisses her, and she wraps her arms around his shoulders and lets him guide her to his ridiculous sham of a bed. Mariah wouldn’t be who she is if she didn’t push back, giving Grayson a hard time and making sure he works for it, but there are moments where something hits a switch and she remembers she’s trying to let him win this time. She wants him, she wants to want this, but she doesn’t know how to want with her body, only how to covet and conquer others’.

Grayson, to his credit, is eating up her efforts, clearly in his element, catching when her mind wanders and flooding her with feedback to reclaim her attention. Clothes come off. Teeth sink into skin amidst shared grunts of pain and effort. They hardly notice the cushions sliding apart underneath them until the sleeping bag plonks down onto the painted hardwood in between, and even then they’re too engrossed to care or stop. They call each other by name without whispering or looking away.

It’s good that he thought to feed beforehand, because it takes all of Grayson’s physical strength to keep wrestling her down again and again as she instinctively tries to seize control. He doesn’t try to use any kind of restraints, or tools, or cheap tricks, and it dawns on Mariah that he wants to subdue her with his own hands, flesh on flesh, a game of brute force and patience rather than cleverness or skill. She finds it oddly charming, in a new and compelling way. She’s talented at digging in her heels, but the more he touches her bare skin, the less she minds having them thrown over her head.

Mariah thought she knew what she wanted. She thought she had already been taking it. This is something else: watching the look on his face as he works his mouth over her clit; knowing every rough grip and caress and bite and thrust she feels is him, choosing her; pulling him in closer instead of pushing him down or away. Her body goes limp. She stops thinking in any language more complicated than sensation. She has no idea how many times she orgasms, but it’s more than the number of positions she’s been in tonight. Grayson is in her pores and her bloodstream, burning out the impurities, scouring her senses clean. She lets go of every tether and throws herself into the heat.

She comes back to herself slowly, out of nothingness, in a heap on the bare floor. Grayson’s arm is around her loosely, their flesh sticking together, her completely nude and him as close as he gets. Everything is tingly and hazy; the concept of afterglow feels more literal than it ever has before. Her mind is a calm static buzz, complemented by a pleasant soreness in her muscles and a couple other places.

She turns her face toward Grayson’s and finds a smile on his face like she’s never seen there before — broad and completely relaxed, tender and satisfied — and she’s filled with a peculiar sense of _belonging_. She only realizes she was crying when he smudges tears from her eyes with his thumb, probably ruining her makeup, but she’s never cared less about appearances than in this perfect moment of connection.

She rolls over, nestling into Grayson’s side and laying her head on his shoulder, and nuzzles a little sigh of contentment into his neck. This, finally and revelationally, is what Mariah has always wanted.

She plants a gentle kiss on his jaw and says, “Thank you for coming back to me.”

The entire length of Grayson’s body freezes against hers.

“Excuse me?”

Her head is too far up in the clouds to register the immediate 180 in his demeanor.

“I’m glad you came back,” she repeats loftily. “I was really worried, for a while. But everything worked out.”

“Mariah.” He props himself up on one elbow, and she begins to realize something is happening. “You know that’s not what happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t ‘come back.’ I left Chicago because of you, and I didn’t know you were in Cleveland until I’d already been living here.”

She cups his cheek, not quite getting it. “You’re here now, though.”

“No.” He pushes her hand away and sits up, forcing her to do the same. “You’re _here_. I _let_ you come here. Into my apartment. Into my life again. I’m not your dog, Mariah.”

Wait — this isn’t going right.

“I know that! I just meant —”

“ _Do_ you?” Grayson has hurt in his eyes, and he makes sure to let her see it.

Wait. Everything was going so well.

“This isn’t fair.”

His hurt doubles in on itself, and she can see anger starting to spark within the thundercloud.

“Nothing is _fair_ , Mariah.”

Everything was going so well.

“Why are you getting pissed at me all of a sudden? You know what, fuck this.”

“Mariah.” There’s strain in his voice as he tries to gently grip her arm. She slips away and starts looking for her underwear. “Please.”

Things were finally going well between them — finally! — and it’s all caught and gone up in an instant. She was so happy just moments ago, she worked so hard to get them there, to capture that for herself. Now it’s burning down with one errant strike of her matchlike tongue, and she’s suffocating on the fumes.

It’s too late. Whichever way she turns, however hard she tries, everything around her is doused in gasoline, and somehow, she’s the idiot caught playing with a zippo.

She doesn’t speak while she gathers her clothes. Grayson is pleading with her, begging her to stay — for what? A chance to hurt her as much as she’s hurt him? Like hell. He starts to cry, fingers slipping off her wrist and her shoulder as she shakes him off again and again to hastily dress herself. She’s too busy choking on her own acrid smoke and her awful, swollen tongue to be moved by his crocodile tears.

“I want you to be here,” he insists one more time, collapsed and sobbing against the side of the ransacked couch frame. He looks like he’s had his heart ripped out.

“Sure you do,” Mariah says tersely, and lets herself out, before the inferno can take her too.


End file.
